I never saw either of them again.
Eight months later, I stood on the balcony of a small house overlooking the Pacific.
Not a mansion.
Not a statement.
Just mine.
Lena visited that weekend with a ridiculous little cake from a downtown bakery.
She placed it on the table.
We both stared.
Then she grinned.
“Too soon?”
I laughed until I nearly cried.
Then I cut two slices.
For months, people asked whether I regretted the wedding.
I didn’t.
I regretted ignoring the early warning signs.
But I never regretted what came after the cake.
Because sometimes the most important promise you make on your wedding day isn’t to the person beside you.
It’s to yourself.
The moment Derek pushed my face into that cake, I finally kept mine.
I left.
And I never looked back.
